A Final Storm: Blood and Fire
by SuperTechmarine
Summary: As the old order tumbles down following Aegon's conquest, Orys Baratheon carves a place for himself in the new order of the Iron Throne, the board is set, the pieces are moving, and the Game of Thrones finally begins. Orys Baratheon/Visenya Targaryen. (Later) Orys Baratheon/Argella Durrandon
1. The Bastard Dragon

**The Bastard Dragon**

The hammer came down with unrelenting fury.

It struck Orys' shield squarely in its center, sending a shock of pain up his arm and into his shoulder. His shield exploded sending wooden splinters in every direction.

Orys rolled to his side before Argilac could bring his hammer to bear down on him again. Storm's End was vaguely visible from behind the Storm King, thin mist covered the battlefield, the rain drenching them, the sky seemed to light up with every bolt of lighting.

One such bolt of lightining illuminated his opponent's form, he wore armor of silver plate, a great helm decorated with a rack of golden antlers, a cloth-of-gold surcoat with the black stag of House Durrandon embroidered on the front, his weapon was a huge warhammer he wielded with both hands.

Orys himself wore simple plate and mail armor as well as black surcoat, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on its breast. His great helm was simple and undecorated.

Argilac's repeated hammer blows had broken his left arm, he was bleeding from a cut that ran from his left brow down to his cheekbone and his short silver-gold hair was wet with sweat.

He jumped to his feet as quickly as he could, ducking under another hammer blow as he jumped around his opponent, standing behind him, he ran his sword through his left knee, the steel went through mail, leather and flesh, earning him a cry of pain and a fresh gush of blood, it smoked as it dripped on the mud.

The Storm King kneeled in pain, the edge of the blade protruding from his knee. Orys walked around to the kneeling king's front, knocking him to the ground with a kick of the leg, and crouching over him, dagger in hand, he shoved it under Argilac's chin, drawing little trickles of blood.

He could smell the stench of shit, charred meat and cooked bone, the cries of dying soldiers, the clank of steel on steel and the shouts of battle, the roar of Rhaenys' dragon, Meraxes. The soft sound of rain water on metal and mud.

He leaned forward on the Storm King's chest, removing his own helm as he asked him, "Do you have any last words, old man?"

It seemed Argilac was not finished yet, for he gripped Orys' throat with both hands, huge hands that seemed to crush his windpipe, "Listen to me, bastard, you lay a hand on my daughter, I'll hunt you through all seven hells."

Nearly panicking, Orys' sword arm stabbed the Storm King under his chin of its own accord, his grip on his throat lightening until his hands went limp and dropped in the mud.

Orys breathed in, his throat uncostricted. He shouted off the top of his lungs. "The King is dead! Argilac is slain!" Other soldiers took up the cry. The Targaryens shouted "Victory! We have victory!"

The last thing he heard was Rhaenys' voice in the distance as he collapsed against corpse under him.

* * *

_A few months earlier..._

_Dragonstone_

Orys entered the Chamber of the Painted Table, dressed in a fine purple doublet and white breeches, his silver-gold hair cut short, his face clean-shaven, the chamber's namesake, the Painted Table, lied in the center of the room, a massive slab of wood shaped in the form of the continent they are about to invade.

At the end of the table, Aegon sits on the high chair overlooking the carving. At his sides, his two sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya, the latter winks at him when their gazes meet, while a look of dismay passes over Rhaenys. Orys' face seems to made of stone for all the expression that it displayed.

Seated on the sides are the subservient lords, Velaryon, Celtigar, Qoherys. Orys sits at his end of the table opposite from Aegon, admring the woodcarvers handiwork.

"My Lords, my Ladies," says Aegon, nodding towards the respective attendants, "here we stand today, overlooking the continent of Westeros..." Orys instantly loses concentration, sensing an incoming speech, as Aegon continues with his monologue. If there is one thing Orys mislikes in his elder brother, it is the fact that speaks a bit too much.

He distracted himself by looking over the attendants, the Lords, are all resplendent in doublets of their respective house colors, while the Targaryen siblings are all dressed in magnificent court clothes, cloth-of-gold, ceremonial doublets and gowns, except for Visenya who wears, as is her custom, a leather jerkin and brown breeches. He drinks in the sight of his half-sister's beauty.

Apart from Aegon and Orys, he and Visenya were the closest among the Targaryen family, while Rhaenys was entertaining this bard or that knight, and Aegon was journeying to this village or that castle, Visenya and Orys could be found either in the yard swatting at each other with wooden swords, or in bed fucking each other senseless.

Often while Aegon would be spending yet another evening in Rhaenys' company (His eldest sister insisted that Aegon rarely visited her bedchamber and the marriage was merely in name, and not in body nor soul. ), Orys and Visenya would take it upon themselves to entertain each other. Aegon seemed to ignore these transgressions from his sister and best friend, since Aegon's attention would be too busy admiring his younger sister's new gown or necklace to notice the suspicious cries coming from Visenya's room. And as reluctant Aegon was to admit it, he was intimidated by his warrior sister; Not that Orys could blame him, Visenya's anger was a thing that could topple down Kings.

"...Orys and Rhaenys will land here" The mention of his name snaps him back to attention . Aegon is pointing towards a hill in the mouth of the river the Westerosi called the Blackwater, "They will land first, securing a beachead, building a fort and a makeshift dock for our barges to come in, bearing the last of our troops and the necessary supplies, while Visenya and Lord Velaryon will sail north, towards Gulltown, it must be secured for a future conquest of the Mountain and Vale. Is this understood?"

A general sound of agreement went up from the attendants. "Good, now leave, all of you, Orys, stay."

All the lords rose from their chairs, exiting the room at a brisk pace, Visenya was the last to rise, brushing his shoulder and whispering "I'll see you tonight, little brother."

Orys gave no sign of having heard that, though he could scarcely wait.

"I've sent an envoy to King Argilac's court, to renegotiate the alliance." asked Aegon.

Orys simply nodded in response. The original offer they had received, was for Aegon to marry his maiden daugher and heiress, Argella, who was by all accounts one of the most beautiful women of Westeros, though Aegon had declined, on grounds of being already married to Rhaenys and Visenya. Instead, he offered Orys as a candidate for the Storm Princess' hand.

"He refused, saying, and i quote, 'These are the only hands the bastard may receive from me', accompanied with this package." Aegon lifted up a wooden box onto the table, he lifted the lid, and showed Orys the two rotting severed hands, oozing pus and blood

"The envoy's hands i presume?" said Orys. Waving the stench away from his nose.

"Indeed." Aegon said "This insult cannot go unpunished, when you land at the Bay and secure the beachhead, i want you to march south, picking up as many men as you can, with Rhaenys and Meraxes, i want you to take Storm's End and destroy him."

Orys was dismayed that it was Rhaenys and not Visenya that would accompany him. Then again, mayhaps that was the point.

"May I suggest another course-"

"You may not." Said Aegon, clearly seeing through his poor attempt at convincing him to switch partners.

He retired to his bedroom only to find Visenya naked under the covers.

This would a good night, he decided

* * *

Orys woke in his tent, the sun shining through the striped red and black canvas, he was sitting on a fur bed, his every limb was on fire with pain. His left arm was oddly numb, until he glanced at it and found it covered in a thick white plaster. He stood up, wincing at the pain of his broken arm, he poured himself a cup of water and drank it eagerly.

He took the time to admire the tent, a humble thing, a fur bed, a small desk, a chest for clothes and a posts for his arms and armor. No more, no less. Orys was a soldier at heart, he grew up on stories of legendary soldiers such Maedrys, who lost his sword hand saving his brother, only to become more skilled than ever with his left, Trynos the Doomaster, who slew a dozen dragons in single combat with his famed black sword.

He didn't notice Rhaenys behind him until she loudly cleared her throat, he turned around surprised to see her there, she discreetly pointed a finger, drawing his attention to his bare chest. He realized he was entirely naked except for his brown breeches, his chest a tapestry of scars earned in battle, Orys turned around, blushing furiously, and found a brown undershirt in his chest, quickly putting it on.

"Sorry for the inconvience, Your Grace. I did not see you there." Orys apologized, with the iron voice he used with everyone except Aegon and Visenya.

"Evidently not, were you expecting someone else? Visenya perhaps?" said Rhaenys with the same tone of faint dismay she spoke with to him since the day he was adopted into the Targaryen family, his relationship with his younger sister had always been chilly at best, he did not love her as much as he loved Aegon and he definitely did not love her as he did Visenya, who welcomed him into the family with open arms. _And open legs_, Aegon used to jest.

"I know not of you what you speak, Your Grace." Replied Orys

"Truly now? You wouldn't know about any sounds coming from her room at night would you?" Replied Rhaenys, her voice was getting rather louder.

Orys was used to his younger half-sister's sarcastic and veiled insults."Do you have orders for me, Your Grace?" His voice colder than usual,

Rhaenys frowned and handed him a parchment. "I took the liberty to demand the surrender of Storm's End. Here is the result." He took the parchment and read it quickly.

_Lady Rhaenys_

_It is my pleasure to inform you, that you can go back the way you came, i shall not bend the knee to you, or your sister-fucking husband._

_Storm this castle if you will, and recall if you do, the name of this fortress._

_Argella, of House Durrandon, Lady of Storm's End, Storm Queen and Protector of the Realm._

"She has spirit, i must say." Orys said as he laid the parchment on the desk. "We'll take this castle soon enough, worry not, Your Grace."

She went off without a word.

He exchanged his brown breeches for black leather ones, he put on a mail byrnie and plate greaves and vambraces. Sheathed his sword on the belt by his hip.

He looked into his mirror, purple eyes stared back at him, a face worn out by war, his beard had grown back, a tangle of silver and brown hair. The cut he had earned was still there, a red line, from his left brow, through his eye and into his cheekbone.

The maids of Dragonstone had been tripping over each other, eager to bed to handsome Bastard of Dragonstone. Though he had no lack for candidates, he was shy and had little experience around women, the only woman he had ever been remotely comfortable with had been Visenya.

He hung a black cloak embroidered with the three headed dragon on over his left shoulder and set himself to the task of inspecting the papers he had received, his left hand was clumsy due to the injury, so he used his right hand almost exclusively.

By midday, he ventured out of his tent and into the camp, the soldier welcomed him eagerly, he shook hands here and there, patted a few backs and exchanged a few words with Martyn, his Captain of the Guard. A very large man, with short brown hair and purple eyes, a strong jaw and lined face. He was a head taller than Orys. He accompanied him to the siege lines, Orys had ordered the construction of siege weapons, trebuchets, rams and ladders. Though it was all truly for the show, the one thing he was pinning his hopes on was a massive siege tower, taller even than the walls of Storm's End, it had over two dozen floors and enough space inside to hold nearly five hundred men, it was equipped with a ram on the lower floor and cowhides protected it from fire.

He confessed himself impressed with the ancient fortress of the Storm Kings. A huge circular wall ringed the keep, a colossal stone tower, decked with battlements like a fist punching the sky.

_This is going to be a hard nut to crack_. Orys thought, rubbing the scar on his brow. He would have no easy conquest here. That is, what he thought until the gates were thrown open and a huge wave of men came gushing forward, he could hear their shouts and cries, he could see a vague form at the front of the human mass.

"Stand fast!" he shouted. The soldiers around him armed themselves for battle they formed up behind him and he loosened his sword in it's scabbard.

The group of men finally reached their lines, they stopped at before the ditch that lined the siege lines. They unceremoniously dumped a naked woman in front of him, she was bound in a tangle of iron chains that clacked everytime she moved.

"We give you the Storm Queen, my lord!" said one of the mutineers.

The woman in chains looked up at him defiance in her blue eyes, he was struck dumb by her beauty, she had bright blue eyes, hair black as coal, pale skin and fair complexion.

_Where did my manners go?_ He chided himself. He helped her up, she looked at him frowning, no doubt expecting him to rape her and then kill her, or mayhaps the other way around.

Instead he tore the cloak he wore at his shoulders and draped it around her, fastening it with a dragon brooch. "Unlock these chains, and find clothes and food for her, and get these turncloaks out of my sight." He commanded, his voice tinted with disgust, Martyn swiftly ordered his men to arrest the mutineers. He was frankly surprised and disturbed that men would so easily turn on their rightful rulers, he had no use for such honorless scum in his army. The fact that they stripped her naked and put her in chains makes it all the more disgusting.

She looked at him, a surprised look on her face, her jaw clenched hard.

He led her into his tent, unlocking the chains himself, he borrowed Rhaenys' dresses despite her protests. "Gallant as ever?" she asked him with a smile. He ignored her completely.

He gave Argella a red gown, with black borders on the hem and cuffs and scrollwork embroidered on the bodice until they he could move to Storm's End.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time he had finished moving from the camp to the castle, his new bedchamber was rather too large for his taste, an ornate canopied bed with room for at least four people, a large desk for him to work, multiple large windows and a balcony offering fresh air and a magnificent view of Shipbreaker's Bay, Myrish carpets and tapestries hung from its walls, painting recounting the history of Durran Godsgrief, who defied the Gods for love and built the greatest castle that ever was.

He grabbed a stool and sat down by the balcony admiring the view, hanging his legs from the rail and setting his plastered arm on his side. He still couldn't bring himself to terms with the sheer size of the keep, looking down, he found the executioner still at work, dispensing justic to the mutineers, no doubt they expected to be spared, Orys would have none of that, he had no use for traitors and turncloaks.

He found himself thinking of Argella Durrandon, who was, in effect, a prisoner in her own castle, they had yet to inform Aegon of the capture the fall of Storm's End, last he heard, the Arryn fleet had defeated Visenya at Gulltown, but had subdued Cracklaw Point, and Aegon had burned Harrenhal to the ground. He had ordered Rhaenys and her army to return to Stony Sept, while Orys, for reason of his extensive injuries stayed at Storm's End, opting to secure the Stormlands instead.

The Storm Queen had been rather quiet, no doubt his chivalry had hurt her pride, she was beautiful, more so than Rhaenys or Visenya, as loathe he was to admit, her blue eyes seemed to shine with her black hair.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, he rose quickly, wincing at the pain of his broken arm, he crossed the room in silence, he opened the door just so slightly, "Maester Edwyrd," he said, opening the door further and allowing the maester entrance to his rooms, he looked neither young nor old, he had golden hair and green eyes, a full beard covered his jaw, "Lord Orys, i have a message from His Grace, King Aegon."

He handed him the parchment, sealed in read wax, the three-headed Targaryen Dragon pressed onto it. Orys opened the parchment, waving the maester away while he sat at his seat by the balcony, he read it by fading sunlight,

_Dear Brother,_

_I have received the news of your victory against the Storm King and i sincerely congratulate you. _

_As for our part, we have taken the field against the Kings of the West, Loren Lannister and Mern Gardener, (Westerosi have some queer names.), mayhaps rumors have already reached you, we have won the battle, our dragons burned their army to ashes, Mern was among the dead, his house now extinct. Though Visenya has taken an arrow to her shoulder and is still healing. _

Orys' heart sank but he carried on.

_In any case, Loren has bent the knee, I have confirmed him as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, while the overlordship of the Reach remains a contested issue, I will need your counsel in that regard. _

_I now ride north to face Torrhen, who is marching south along the Trident. In the meantime, Rhaenys will go south to take Dorne while Visenya marches north to take the Vale._

_I hope to see you soon and in good health,_

_Egg._

_P.S: Visenya sends her regards._

Orys folded the letter and deposited it on his desk. Thinking back on all the news to take in. Mern dead, the Western lords subdued, this changes everything.

Suddenly he felt very tired, he realised he hadn't slept for days, too busy overseeing the occupation of Storm's End and the subjugation of the Storm Lords.

He rose from his seat and walked to his bed, shedding his shirt and depositing it on his bedpost, he all but collapsed against the bed, staring at the ceiling until he closed his eyes and sleep finally took him.

* * *

_Eight years earlier..._

Orys' fourteenth nameday had come and gone over a day before.

He was sitting on the dark walls of Dragonstone, overlooking the sea beyond the island, below, the waves crashed on the waves. Stone Gargoyles sat at his sides.

His legs hung from the parapets, his back to the crenellation behind him. It was a sunny day, the sky was blue, the sun shone on his black tunic and his red leather breeches.

He could hear the faint click of boots on stone, he looked around and saw Visenya, wearing her usual leather jerkin and black breeches, her silver-gold hair tied in a dozen tresses that tumbled down her back, her hips swaying with every stride, she had a way of driving men mad with desire, he noted, Orys was no exception.

"Orys" she said, smiling, mussing his hair as she sat down beside him, her cloak swishing behind her.

"'Senya, i thought you'd be at the feast," he said,

She shrugged, "I got bored, too much noise, stinks of beer and ale, men trying to get under my breeches, and i didn't have my favorite brother for company. What about you? Did you finally tire of your dear sister?"

"Never. Lady Velena ran me off, figured it would be an insult to seat a bastard among the high lords." He said, glancing towards the sea.

"A pity," she said, cocking her head and running a finger down his purple doublet, "I realise i haven't given you anything for your name day. I have finally decided today what to give you."

"Really? And what is this gift?"

Her beautiful face turn into a devilish wide grin, "Follow me." She grabbed his hand and led him off towards the garden, ignoring his curious inquisitions as they went.

She led him behind a thick bush, she tore off her cloak and deployed it on the ground. She finally turned around, he frowned and asked her. "What's this all about?"

She just smiled, her purple eyes boring into his, she leaned on him until their foreheads nearly touched each other, "Can't you guess?" She asked, grinning. When he shook his head she whispered "I'll make a man out of you."

Before he could make sense of her words, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a deep kiss, gently pushing him down to the grass. Orys' eyes were wide open with surprise as he crashed down on his back, he gave in to the temptation and kissed her back, his hands grabbing her hips and pulling her further into him, her lips parted with a sigh and her tongue swirled in his mouth, she tasted of wine, fire and exotic spices.

She nibbled on his lip, sucking his soul from his mouth, she pinned him to the ground with one hand while clawing his scalp with the other as he groaned against her mouth.

Consumed by lust, his own hands draped around her waist, pulling her down harder on him, the feeling of her body against his inflamed him, his cock was hard already.

She pulled back, both breathing heavily, he flipped her on her back and kissed her neck while she moaned, somehow that made him harder than he was already.

He all but tore her tunic clean off, continuing down her chest down to her breasts, her skin was warm to the touch, he hungered for more, he suckled on her nipples while her moans grew louder and louder. Her legs parting apart with a sigh while her hands unlaced his breeches.

He continued down even further, leaving a trail of kisses down her body, he quickly removed her breeches and realized with a start that she wasn't wearing any smallclothes, _Wicked wench_, he thought as he licked her on her mound, lightly at first, when her moans intensified he slipped a finger inside her, he found her hot and wet. He kissed her there while his fingers rubbed her inside.

Her whole body trembled, her legs snapped together, her back arched and she cried his name until he kissed her silent.

He thrust inside her, filling her entirely, it was so tight and wet and hot and oh so sweet. She bit down her lip, tears welling in her eyes while blood flowed from her cunt.

He thrust again, her legs draping around his hips, guiding him inside her as his thrust intensified in speed and depth. They both moaned louder and louder with every thrust, his cock grinding against the inside of her cunt.

He forgot everything, nothing mattered now except Visenya and he. Every part of him burned with desire, the pleasure overwhelmed him as he spilled his seed inside her while they cried each other's name, both of their bodies trembled, they panted, sweating.

He all but collapsed on her, he felt his heart beating in tune with her own.

"That's your nameday gift." She whispered in his ear before they kissed again.

He could not think of a sweeter gift anyone could give him.

* * *

His eyes fluttered open, he cursed the sun for waking him from his dreams. He blinked, _Where am i?_ He thought, _Storm's End_, he remembered. _I'm in Storm's End_. He had spent at over a month in the Stormlands, going around the Stormlands making sure the Storm Lords remained bent over sufficiently and keeping the peasants tame.

He sat up, looking over his room, he stood, his head swimming and black spots dancing over his eyes, and walked towards the balcony, the sky was a tapestry of gold, blue and purple. The sunlight reflecting on the water of Shipbreaker's Bay. By his judgement it was already midday.

He cursed himself again for being late. He opened his drawers and decided to wear a purple doublet, white breeches, a red cloak and black boots.

He broke his fast in his solar, a spacious room with a large hearth, a long table and a desk as well as a library with books dating back centuries. His meal consisted of bacon, buttered bread and a cup of lemon water. He did not drink wine or ale or beer for that matter since a particularly bad incident in his childhood on Dragonstone which had left him with a few broken ribs, a black eye and the feeling of dragons dueling inside his head.

As he ate, he checked his letters, most of it was useless drabble, a lord requesting compensation for his burned land, a border dispute, a peasant complaining of a witch turning him into a newt or some such. All except for a letter from Aegon which requested, no _ordered_. His presence at Aegon's Fort, which the common folk had dubbed King's Landing.

He decided he would prepare for the journey immediately, so as to be ready to go in a fortnight. He ordered the steward to start making preparations and designated Ser Paul Atreides to rule Storm's End in his name while he was away in King's Landing. He ordered him specifically to keep Argella Durrandon under guard.

A fortnight later, he rode out of Storm's End with a company of five hundred men, the Targaryen banner flapping proudly on the wind. The journey took the better part of the month, continuously delayed by storms and bandits, as well as Durrandon deserters that still prowled the countryside, he made it a point to tell Ser Paul to send out regular patrols.

A day's ride from King's Landing, they were met by an honor guard composed of a posse of knights and lordlings, who were of small matter to Orys, except for Visenya who had accompanied the group of lordlings.

He could hear the roar of dragons hours before reaching King's Landing. Balerion and Vhagar circled above the hills, he could see a large hunk of red rock rising on the highest hill, when he rode closer he realised it was a castle wall, built on the brow of the hill, a red keep rising from the highest point of the hill

The sun was setting by the time his party finally arrived. He rode past the half-completed gate accompanied by Visenya and half a dozen guards, dressed in a red tunic, black leather breeches and hard riding boots. His face clean shaven and his silver hair cut short.

He was welcomed in the courtyard by the royal steward, "The King requests your presence, my lord." He said, "As soon as you've rested and moved your things into the Tower of the Hand.

"The Tower of the Hand?" asked Orys.

The steward pointed towards the tall tower to his left. "I see." Orys said. "Arrange for my things to be moved," he ordered as he patted the steward on his shoulder and walked in the direction of the throne room before he could protest, Visenya followed swiftly behind him.

The guards opened the doors for him and he walked into a massive hall, rays of colored sunlight shone through the stained glass of the high vaulted ceiling, tapestries hung from alcoves carved into the incomplete walls, windows of stained glass decorated the sides, and rows of marble columns supported the hall's roof. The floor was a massive confection of marble, red and white squares, gigantic arches at the end of the hall allowed entrance for sunlight.

At the other end of the throne room, he could see workers busy hammering a massive mangle of black iron swords on the dais. The sound of clanking hammers echoed in the throne room.

They continued down to the council chambers behind the construct of iron and found Rhaenys and a dark hair, grey-eyed admiring a tapestry on the wall, Aegon sitting down on the high seat of a long table of black wood, inspecting a scroll, a curious looking man with golden hair and green eyes sat beside him, muttering something Orys could not hear.

Aegon glanced up and saw him standing at the doorway, he stood abruptly, striding quickly around the table and hugging him, "Orys, it's good to see you," the King said as he shook his hand. "Likewise, Your Grace." Replied Orys.

Rhaenys and the dark-hair youth both turned around while the golden haired man shook his hand, "Lord Orys, an honor to meet you." He said, his grip firm.

" The honor is mine, Lord..." replied Orys.

"Loren, of House Lannister," finished Aegon, "He's to be the new master of coin. And this is Brandon Snow, brother of Lord Stark." Continued the King, pointing towards the dark hair grey eyed youth.

"An honor, my lord." Said Orys, shaking his fellow bastard's hand.

"Tell me, one bastard to another, is it truly an honor?" asked the smirking Stark.

Orys had no answer for that.

"I suppose not." Continued Brandon as he sat down on the council table along with the other attendants, Aegon sat down at the high seat, a three headed dragon carved into the wooden chair. He waved Orys to the seat beside him. He sat dutifully beside his King, Visenya seating herself at his right side and Rhaenys to the King's left, Brandon Snow, sat across the table and Loren Lannister beside the Bastard of Winterfell.

"Welcome, my lords my ladies." Said the King, nodding towards the respective persons addressed. "The first issue to be set before the council, is to be the distribution of spoils, the first of this case, is the lordship of the Stormlands."

"A local lord of loyal demanor might suit," suggested Rhaenys, Brandon and Loren nodded in agreement.

"Or you, Orys," retorted Aegon

"_Me?_" He replied

"You have been a leal servant, as of late, and I feel you have gone unrewarded for your valiant efforts for far too long," said Aegon, _aside from letting you and Visenya continue your affair unmolested, _his look seemed to say. "The lordship of Storm's End, it's respective lands and incomes, as well as overlordship of the Stormlands will be granted to you as their liege lord." Orys was sincerely surprised, he had always done his duty, great or small, with no expectation of a reward save gratitude.

"The Storm Lords might have a thing or two to say about that," hissed Rhaenys.

"So they will," said Aegon "But, I hear the late Storm King's daughter remains unmarried, and you do lack a wife, Orys."

"I don't think she'd like to marry a bastard, Aegon," replied Orys, frowning

"So what? I'll legitimize you! She does not have much of a choice in any case." said the King. Before anyone could protest, he plowed on. "And that's not the least, a King needs someone trustworthy and loyal to rule his kingdom. Orys, i would name you Hand of the King as well, to rule the in my name, speak with my voice, dispense my justice." Every attendant was surprised, ever straightforward, Aegon went on, "The second case, the Reach. King Mern of House Gardener died without issue, burned in a battle of his own choosing, his succession remains disputed, and Highgarden lacks a lord."

"The Florents have the best claim, do they not?" asked Loren. "Otherwise the Hightowers or the Rowans might do."

"Or the Tyrells. They proved forthcoming to your advances, weren't they? What's your saying? Generous to those who bend the knee, harsh to those who defy you?" suggested Brandon, his smirk ever-present. Orys and Visenya nodded in agreement.

Aegon nodded. "A fine idea. The Tyrells it is then." He could see the faint look of dismay on Loren's face. "Thirdly, the Trident, lacks an overlord, i mean to elevate Edmyn Tully, to Lord Paramount of the Trident." All the councillors nodded. It was a sensible choice, decided Orys, he and Visenya had met Lord Edmyn, a few year earlier, posing as man and wife, merchants from distant lands, seeking to expand their trade west. They had secretly negotiated a deal in which Edmyn would lead his fellow Riverlords in rebellion against the Ironborn, in exchange he would be elevated to Lord Paramount of the Trident. Since he was the most powerful and influential of the River Lords, and the one with the best claim, since House Mudd had died out millenia ago, the Tullys were descended from them, being a cadet line of them after all.

"Finally, the High Septon, has invited me to Oldtown, I shall leave soon, with every high lord in tow, to attend the High Septon. I want a raven to be sent to every high lord in Westeros, i mean to have my coronation at Starry Sept," Orys was immediately suspicious of his inentions, why would he have to go all the way there? Did he plan something he wasn't saying?

Aegon, as fearsome as he and his dragons are, was universally reviled as a heathen, a sister-fucker and a bigamous bastard, his marriage to Visenya was seen as invalid, did he plan on converting to their religion, this Seven-who-are-One nonsense? Orys frankly could not understand their complaints, he had fucked his sister Visenya since he was four and ten, he did not see the problem, they were of the same seed, surely that would mean they were meant to be together? In any case, Orys did not plan to convert unless Aegon ordered him to.

The King dismissed the council, Orys rose from his chair, finding himself too tired to work. He retired from the Council Chambers, walking down the steps past the iron monstrosity.

"The Iron Throne." He heard a voice. He turned around and saw Lord Loren Lannister staring up at the barbed mangle he called a throne. "It took fifty-nine days, you know, forged from His Grace's enemies swords." He took the time to look up at the former King of the Rock, he was dressed in a fine crimson doublet, the golden lion of Lannister embroidered on it, a golden half cape hung lazily from his left shoulder, his hair was arranged into well-ordered curls that tumbled to his shoulder, his brown breeches resplendent on his white boots.

"I do not believe we were properly introduced, my name is Loren, of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, and you, well you are rather a famous man, Lord Orys, your reputation precedes you, the Warrior made flesh, who took down the Storm King with his own hands."

The young Lord cocked his head. "A piece of friendly advice, my lord Hand." He said, wrapping his arms around the book in his hand.

"Taking rulership of a land that has known other lords for centuries, may be hard without adapting to the local customs. Marriage with a local, especially one as comely as Lady Durrandon, and conversion to the native religion, these thing may ease your time. After all that is how House Lannister weathered the Andal Invasion. More or less. Or near enough that makes no matter," advised the Lord of Casterly Rock as he walked off.

He turned around at the final step. "Consider my advice, we could be great friends you and I, we have only, after all the same interests at heart, the good of the Realm."

He walked off with a bow.

* * *

Ah yes, the rare story that is set before canon events, the war of conquest no less.

Same protocol as Dance of Winter Lions. Ask a question here, i'll answer it later.

The Visenya/Orys affair isn't canon by any stretch of the imagination, but i took it and ran with it. I tried to draw Jon/Arya paralles between Visenya and Orys, considering they, like the Stark lads, don't feel like they belong anywhere, Visenya being a tomboy and Orys being a baseborn bastard. Except with Targaryen incest added in.

I also attempted to draw a Robb/Jon parallel between Orys and Aegon, because they just fit so well.

Loren Lannister is as you may have noticed, is a big aversion of the Lannister stereotype, arrogant, selfish, etc. It doesn't mean he's a good guy, it's just that like many he's a grey character, more so than the canon Lannisters.

Brandon Snow (Yes, that one.) is also the same kind of aversion except of Le Ned Stark, instead of an honorable dude, we have a Theon/Jaime kind of guy.


	2. The Hand of the Dragon King

**The Hand of the Dragon King**

* * *

Orys rode into the Throne Room, on a pale horse. Clad in a magnificent golden doublet embroidered with myriad decorations, black boots and a black cape with red lining so large it hung from the back of his horse; He cut his silver hair short and his face was clean-shaven, the scar on his brow irritated him horribly, and his purple eyes scanned the throne room.

A sea of faces surrounded him, guards in mail and leather lined the long white silk carpet. At the end of the hall, a vast black banner was hanging on the wall, the three-headed dragon embroidered on it.

Aegon sat the Iron Throne, clad in golden enameled steel from head to toe, silver-gold curls hanging to his shoulder, his violet eyes stared at him as he rode forth on his pale horse, on his helm, a three-headed dragon carved from horn, a black and red circlet on his brow.

"All hail His Grace; Aegon, of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of Westeros and Protector of the Realm." Rang out the herald.

Orys dismounted and took a knee before the King, as he descended the steps. Aegon's squire, a Tyrell lad of thirteen whose name Orys never really catched, his hair a mess of brown curls, dressed in forest green court clothes, walked behind him and held out a large black leather sheath.

Aegon the Conqueror drew forth Blackfyre, the hand and a half Valyrian Steel longsword of House Targaryen (along with Dark Sister, Visenya's own sword), its hilt was crafted of white dragonbone wrapped in dark leather, it's pommel was a dragon head carved of weirwood, it's eyes were rubies. The blade was dark as smoke, the black patterns shone in the light where the smiths had folded the steel over and over during the forging.

He tapped Orys on the shoulder, "Do you pledge to me, your faith, do you yield to hearth and harvest, do you pledge to me, your swords and spears, your shields and arrows, do you swear, by earth and water, by ice and fire?" bellowed the King.

"I do so swear." Shouted back Orys.

"Then rise, rise again as Orys, of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Hand of the King and Heir to the Throne until a son is born to me." _Heir to the throne? _The very words left him breathless.

Orys rose,stammering, as Aegon pinned to his breast, a brooch in the shape of a golden hand. He kissed both of his cheeks and waved him away.

Orys, newly made Baratheon and Hand of the King, took a seat on the council table, beside Visenya, who looked radiant, in a magnificent black gown with red lining, embroidered with golden scrollwork at hem and cuffs, pearls lined her bodice and around her neck, a necklace of sapphires and emeralds. Her silver-gold hair tied into a dozen braids, attached together by silk ribbons, that tumbled down her back.

He watched as Aegon, dispensed lands to his new subjects, "Lord Edmyn Tully, Lord of Riverrun," he glanced at Orys and Visenya, flashing a knowing smile, Orys' hand flew instinctively to the back of his head.

"It is the desire of His Grace the King, to raise you to the rank of High Lord, and be granted the status of Lord Paramount of the Trident, to rule the Riverlands in our King's name. May your sons and grandsons enjoy these titles 'till the end of time." Shouted the Herald.

Edmyn bowed before the King, thanking him for his generousity and walking back towards crowd.

Aerion Qoherys came next, a large man, eight foot tall and muscled like an ox, a shock of red and white hair hanged to his shoulders, and his red eyes shone with mischief. He knew the man from his visits to Dragonstone, a distant cousin of his father, Aerion, he remembered seeing him drink a dozen men under the table without breaking a sweat.

"Aerion of House Qoherys, it is the wish of His Grace the King, to elevate you to the rank of lord, and be granted the seat of Harrenhal, may your sons and grandsons enjoy this titles 'till the end of time, additionally, it is also the wish of the King for you to sit on his council, as Master of Laws."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I shall need to see about those sons and grandsons." Said the newly made Lord of Harrenhal, the crowded hall all laughed at his words, Aegon among them.

Next, a short man of brown hair and honey like eyes, kneeled before the Iron Throne.

"Harlan of House Tyrell, it is the wish of His Grace the King for you to be elevated to the rank of Lord Paramount, and be granted the seat of Highgarden, as well as the Wardenship of the South, may your sons and grandsons rule the Reach, until the end of time."

Lord Harlan, thanked Aegon solemnly and retreated back into the crowd. Orys could see Leyton Hightower and Alliser Florent storming out of the hall in some haste. He wondered what mischief those two would be planning together, nothing good he knew. With Lord Banfred Hightower, it was easy enough, he had refused to follow Mern into the Field of Fire, and had all but acknowledged Aegon as his King, yet he died unexpectedly, some suspected poison, some old age. Orys did not know what to believe.

The rest of the day was a tedious waste of time. Lord Daemon Velaryon, the son of the late Lord Velaryon, who had sunk with fleet during Visenya's attack on Gulltown, Orys had found the late admiral agreeable enough. His son was not so agreeable as him however, he was granted a council seat as Master of Ships, and a few castles and strongholds among the isles and coasts of the Narrow Sea.

Brandon Snow was elevated to Master of Whisperers in his brother Torrhen Stark's place. A dismal exchange, Torrhen seemed cautious, wise and humble, where his half-brother was hot-blooded and had a fearsome repuation in the Seven Kingdoms.

Loren Lannister, was confimed as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, as well as being promoted to Master of Coin. He had already met the man, a genial follow, easy to be around, Orys did not trust him however, being a bastard had made him wary of people, he suspected something beneath the Western Lord's good advice and merry discussions.

The day was all in all a boring repetition of things they had already decided in council, only Rhaenys and Aegon insisted it was necessary for them to make it public.

The day was concluded with a large feast, with every lord of notice in attendance, Aegon was notably absent, off riding Balerion, guessed Orys. He was seated beside Visenya and Lord Loren on the high table, the course was made up of onion and pigeon pies, buttered bread fresh from the oven, wine from the Arbor, gifted by Lord Redwyne no doubt to curry favor, roast chicken, pork sausage, ribs roasted in garlic and herbs, and turnips soaked in butter.

"So how did you conquer the Vale, Your Grace?" asked the Lord of Casterly Rock, sipping his wine.

"Well, it was quite easy, I simply flew to the top of the Eyrie, there I found the little boy Ronnel playing in the courtyard, I offered him a ride on Vhagar, my dragon, in exchange for the surrender of the Vale, then his mother, Lady Sharra, burst out into the courtyard, the boy asks for her permission, and she says yes. So I took him flying arond the Vale, up to the Fingers and back." Answered Visenya, her voice full of pride.

"A hearty tale, though I can't imagine giving up my kingdom for a ride on a dragon." said Orys, _unless said dragon is Visenya_, he thought.

"Tell me, my Lord Hand," said Loren, being called 'my lord' still felt queer to Orys. "Have you ridden many dragons?"

"Oh, I rode one dragon, many times," said Orys, not meaning it the way Lord Lannister thought he was, Visenya glared daggers at him, her jaw clenched so tight he feared her teeth might shatter while her face turned cherry red. Lord Loren for his part looked mightily confused. The Lord of Storm's End was thankfully saved from having Visenya bash his face into the table by a sudden shout that silenced the room.

Lord Orys saw Leyton Hightower, standing nearly eight feet tall, over an overturned table, the food was spilled out on a puddle of wine on the floor. _Such waste_, thought Orys.

"I will not have my honor questioned by the sister-fucker's bitch!" Shouted Lord Hightower.

The whole hall went silent, Lord Leyton and Lord Harlan stared each other down, until the Hightower looked around the hall, seeing the guards in Targaryen colors slowly drawing their weapons. Orys did not remember moving, but he was on his feet, ready to pounce at the merest provokation, Lord Hightower's face was red with fury, he noted. The Hightower men were rising to their feet, until Leyton finally stormed out of the hall, throwing a man out of his way, who promptly crashed against a table.

When he was gone, Orys slumped back into his chair, relieved. The feast continued as if nothing happened, as if a second war didn't almost happen, as if they were safe because of the Dragons flying above the city. Orys knew they weren't.

* * *

Visenya groaned again in a most unladylike manner.

She did everything in a way a lady was not supposed to do. While Rhaenys had perfected all her courtesies and knew every song by heart when she was nine. Visenya was off befriending stableboys, knights, squires and lords, (She could make friends of anything and anyone, remarkably) hounding them for stories and tales of chivalrous knights. Most inhabitants, Rhaenys included, found it distasteful, Orys however found it quite endearing. She dragged him along for company, at first it was a torturing experience, before long he quite enjoyed their sorties.

He still remembered their very t first true kiss. At one feast or other, while Orys was (mostly) sober and Visenya was blood drunk, she kissed him in the hallway while Orys was returning to his room, he was mightily confused by her show of affection. The very next day, she told she had actually faked her drunkeness and had kissed him on purpose, _he _kissed _her_ then.

When they both came of age, Orys decided to ask their father his permission to marry.

"I want to marry Visenya," he remembered saying, a lad of six and ten at the time.

Lord Aerion Targaryen, of Dragonstone, looked nervous, his face frowning. After an uncomfortable silence, his lilac eyes finally turned to him.

"You can't marry her." Said Aeron said, four words, yet with them he crushed Orys' whole world.

"Why not?!" shouted the boy Orys had once been.

"You're a bastard," said the Lord of Dragonstone. "It would be unseemly for the eldest daughter of a dragonlord to marry a bastard"

A fortnight later, it was decreed that Aegon would marry Visenya, even though he had already married Rhaenys for love, over a year before.

He did not know who to hate. Aerion, for refusing him, Aegon for marrying her instead, the gods for cursing him to bastardy or his mother, which he never knew, even when he asked his father who she was.

The night before Aegon and Visenya's wedding, she came to him in his room and fucked him senseless, then woke him and fucked him again, and again, and again, every time he went to sleep, she woke him and fucked him again.

"So what sigil will you choose?" asked Visenya casually, straddling his thighs with her legs, supporting herself by her hands on his shoulders. Her interruption of his painful memories was nearly a relief.

Since he was lying on his back in the wet grass of the hill, he tilted his head forward and opened his eyes. She was wearing a black leather breastplate that accentuated her voluptuous curves over a white tunic with wide sleeves. Her silver-gold hair tied into braided coils that tumbled down her back, with the sun shining behind her she looked nearly divine. The sight of Vhagar flying above somewhat marred the sight.

"I don't know," he said.

"What about a black three-headed dragon on a red field?" She purred.

"A reversal of the Targaryen sigil, unoriginal, have you lost your edge?" He replied grinning.

"A white dragon with red eyes?"

"Unless you give me Vhagar, then no."

"A black dragon on a golden field?"

"No black dragons."

"A Dragon and a Stag combatant?"

"Please no."

"A silver dragon flying in a thunderstorm?"

"What is it with you and your Dragons?" Said Lord Baratheon, he thought back on Lord Loren's words, specifically his advice on matters of integration. "I think I'll just choose a prancing black stag, on a golden field."

"Those are the arms of House Durrandon," said Visenya, matter-of-factly.

"Exactly," he said, "If the prickly Storm Lords think of me as a continuation of the former house, they won't be so eager to cut my throat in my sleep."

"You haven't wed her yet," she said, her voice pained, whether for him or for herself he didn't know, Orys knew full well of who _her _was, Argella Durrandon, the last claimant to Storm's End, aside from House Whitehall, the most powerful of the Storm Houses and cadet branch of the Durrandons, founded by Arveleg the Mighty, when he helped his elder brother break a rebellion, he granted him vast lands, bigger than most bannermen had a right to, from his land, he founded the great castle of Whitehall, from which he chose his new name.

"Marrying her will do you more good than changing your sigil to hers," it sounded more like something from the head and not the heart.

_I want to marry you_, he wanted to say, but they both know it could never be. "Eventually," he said smiling, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her for a kiss while the other slid under her tunic.

Neither of them noticed the man watching them from afar.

* * *

Aegon and his two queens marched up the carpet of Starry Sept.

The sunlight shone through the stained glass windows on the walls and the dome-like ceiling, depicting the Seven gods, The floor was a tapestry of marble the colour of rainbows.

Thousands upon thousands attended the coronation, Orys Baratheon sat beside Brandon Snow at one of the front benches, while Lord Baratheon wore his usual court clothes, a ceremonial golden doublet, a cloth-of-gold cape with the prancing black stag embroidered on it, white leather breeches and black boots. Silver hair cut short and beard trimmed to the jawline, Brandon Snow wore black and black and more black.

Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya however were radiant, Aegon wore a ceremonial doublet with black lining, a circlet of black and red on his brow.

Rhaenys wore a long white gown embroidered with green scrollwork, pearls lined her bodice, golden necklaces adorned with diamonds and rubies and sapphires, the cheeks of her heart-shaped face were puffed pink, her skin pale as cream, her hair was tied into elaborate braids tied together with pearls and silk ribbons, one braid tumbled down her back and the two others flowed over her shoulders, her hair was more like gold than silver, he noted.

Visenya was outmatched, her gown was simple; black silk with red lining, her hair tied into braided coils all attached together with an ornate silk ribbon.

The Royal triple kneeled on before an altar, the High Septon, dressed in flowing brown robes, stood before them, oils in hand, he blessed them with sermons Orys was too distracted to hear.

He noticed a few dark silhouettes huddled in a dark corner of the sept, their proximity suggested they were talking, though Orys was too far away to hear. _Curse this bloody ceremony_, thought Orys.

Orys reminisced about old times, he and Aegon's campaign during the last days of the Century of Blood, otherwise know as the Bleeding Years, where he earned his fame as the finest general alive, Orys scoffed at the idea.

At the time, the Free City of Volantis had declared themselves the heir of Old Valyria, a Volantene army had crushed Myr while a fleet besieged Lys. When they foolishly took it into their heads to conquer Tyrosh, the cities of Myr and Lys rose in rebellion, while Pentos entered on Tyrosh's side while Argilac the Storm King sailed from Durran's Defiance to crush Volantis.

The Volantenes, finally realising their mistake, reached out to Aegon for help, Aegon, however, not one for having equals and fearing an attack from the east when he would conquer Westeros, flew from Dragonstone on the back of Balerion the Black Dread, an army led by Orys at his back, while Aegon was a good dragonrider, he was not as good in military strategy.

Orys still remembered the Battle of Tyrosh, where he led an Allied army against the Volantenes, their general was foolhardy, arrogant and too aggressive, Orys positioned his army beside the sea on one side, and the forest on the other, half his army was a bait designed for the Volantenes to charge, and so they did.

While the Volantenes fought the Allies on the road, Orys deployed the other half of his army, which he hid in the forest, they drove the Volantenes into the sea, most drowned while a few fought to the death.

He could still see the corpses floating on the water, their bodies riddled with arrows, their blood mingled with seawater, making the Narrow Sea red.

He could still hear their screams, their faces as they pushed them off the cliff, the smell of rotting flesh, the sting in his eyes from the dragon fire Balerion had unleashed.

He could still see the boy's face as he cleaved his chest with a greatsword from shoulder to groin.

* * *

Orys leaned back on his seat on the balcony as the sounds of the feast still rumbled in the distance.

A pollaxe hung from the post on his bedroom's wall beside a large canopied featherbed, a Myrish carped marked the center of the room.

The First Baratheon found himself admiring the stars, one looked oddly like a sword, he thought, he reflected on his martial skills. The inhabitants of Dragonstone oft called him Balerion made flesh, a god of war. He was a better fighter than Aegon, for sure, Visenya was close in skill.

Oft in his younger days, his favorite weapon had been the sword, as he grew into a man, he found he preferred pollaxes and greatswords.

He still remembered the games they played when children, he and Aegon, pretending they were great men from bygone ages.

"I'm Daeron the August!" shouted Aegon.

"Well then I'm Maegor the Ghiscari!" Orys cried back.

"I'm the First Citizen of Valyria!" shouted Aegon

"Then I'm Lord of Dragonstone!" said Orys.

"You can't be the Lord of Dragonstone! Mother says you can't you're a bastard!" protested Aegon, after that, Orys found himself playing with Visenya more often than he did with Aegon.

_The Bastard of Dragonstone_, thought Orys, amused, _Lord of Storm's End and Hand of the King. _A greater prize than he could ever hope for, more than he deserved, surely.

He needed sleep, badly, he rose from his chair.

"Go to the Free Cities," he heard an oddly familiar voice whisper, "hire as many sellswords as you can. You, however, will infiltrate the Citadel, and acquire as much knowledge on dragons as you can find. If they don't have their dragons, the realm will rebel, i'm sure of it."

Orys stopped dead in his tracks, _Treason!_, he shouted at himself, he grabbed his pollaxe and ran as fast as he could down the steps of the Hightower, when he finally reached the bottom.

"Gone," he muttered, "Gone, the sons of whores!"

"Surprise, sisterfucker," he heard someone say. He turned to face him.

The axe took him in the back of his head.


	3. The Warrior Queen

**Visenya**

Visenya felt a light touch on her shoulder and woke suddenly, but it was only Mina, the maid's face was white and frightened.

_We are not alone_, the queen realized, tall dark figures loomed over her bed, she recognized the glimmer of chain mail. Armed men had no business here, _Where are the guards? _Her bedchamber was dark save for a single golden ray of sunlight that pierced the drapings of her room's windows.

Visenya pushed back her sleep-tousled silver hair from her eyes, and sat up. "What do you want?" She asked, her voice hoarse, her throat was dry, she realized.

"The King said to get you, Your Grace," she recognized the voice of Ser Leto Atreides, the Captain of the Guard. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and muscled like a bear, his hairline was receding and he kept a full beard on his jaw.

She stared, confused, as he muttered about a kidnapping, an axe, and said her brother's name. _Orys_, she knew, she wondered what was happening. She had gone last night to her half-brother's bedchamber when Aegon and Rhaenys were safely passed out in each other's arms. She found it empty, she decided to wait for a while, but gave up and went back to her own bed after Orys remained stubbornly absent.

"Wait outside while I dress," she ordered, waving the guards away, while she rose out of bed, she let Mina slip an undershirt on her naked body.

By the time she had left the Hightower, the sky had turned a deep cobalt blue, the sun was rising shyly over the Sunset Sea. A thin morning mist obscured the world, turning it into a hazy fog. Dressed in a red leather gambeson over a white woolen tunic, black riding boots and a red cloak, Dark Sister, her Valyrian Steel sword safely sheathed at her belt, slapping lightly against her hip with every stride.

She paused over the bridge that connected the Hightower to the city of Oldtown, a massive city that stretched as far her eyes could see, canals lined the city like veins through a man's body, or woman's, she supposed. It smelt of salt and the sea, ships were sailing past and into harbour as usual. She saw a longship, its black sail emblazoned with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. _What are they doing here? _Lord Greyjoy had already sworn fealty to Aegon at the coronation.

She strode over the courtyard where she saw Aegon talking with Ser Leto, a sea of faces around them, she recognized Brandon Snow and Torrhen Stark in the crowd, while Brandon wore his usual annoying smirk, like he was privy to jape only he knew, Torrhen was looking worried, his brows furrowed in concern, his hair tangled like he had been violently roused from sleep. The Dragon King, as some called him, was wearing a red gambeson, the three-headed dragon of their house emblazoned on its breast, sunlight was shining in his silver-gold hair. _Where's Rhaenys?_, thought Visenya, _she should be here by now!_

Though her sister's absence was not a surprise, her and Orys' relationship was never warm. She had that in common with their lady mother.

"What happened?" she said, her voice cutting through the idle chatter like a knife through butter. The crowd parted for her to pass through.

She gasped.

A puddle of dry blood had formed on the cobblestones of the yard, a bloody track led from the puddle to the cliff side, dropping off into the sea.

"Gods, what the-"

"You, tell your Queen what you told me," said Aegon, in his Kingly voice.

"It was a shadow, Y'grace," said a homely maid, shaking like a leaf, "Lord Orys was standing over there," she continued, pointing towards the puddle of blood. "Then a shadow came from behind him and struck him on his head with an axe, then it dragged him off, I don't know where, I was so afraid, m'sorry, I ran away as fast I could, I thought I was going to die..." She continued, dissolving into tears, her whole body wracked with sobs and she shivered in the cold morning air, Aegon waved at a guard and he half-led, half-carried the maid back to the Hightower.

Visenya stood there, wordless, staring into nothing. She could see Aegon's mouth moving as if in speech, but she heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing.

Aegon's hand fluttered in front of her face, waking her from her spiral into the abyss of nothing.

"We need to find him," he said, as if it were that simple.

She nodded and looked around, reconstituting the scene in her mind, she saw Orys standing over the offending spot, a shadow sneaking up on him, swinging an axe to his head, felling him to his knees. Her half-brother's silhouette collapsing on the ground, blood pooling around the wound on his head while the shadow grabbed him by his heels and dragged him to the cliffside.

She followed the trail to its end, looking over the sea, she saw the waves crashing down on the rocks below, a salty mist flew up to her face, stinging her eyes.

* * *

A week passed, she was pacing in Aegon's solar, a large room, soft Myrish carpets felt like feathers on her feet, tickling them with every step, a long table shaped like a crescent was strewn before the burning hearth, the smell of incense and the sound of crackling flames filled the room.

Aegon sat at the end of the table, frowning deeply at a parchment in his hand, then sighed and slumped back on his char, clad all in black and with dark circles under his eyes, Visenya saw that he was as distressed by this as she was.

Rhaenys sat by a stool in the corner, dressed in black and gold, running her finger on a wooden harp, the sound of her music was irritating to Visenya, she wanted nothing more than to break the harp and watch it splinter.

"Stop it please," she cried, Rhaenys looked at her, a small playful smile forming on her lips.

A soft knock on the door stopped her before she could answer, "It's Brandon Snow, Y'Grace."

Aegon looked up from his papers to the door, and said "Enter,"

The door opened, revealing the Master of Whisperers, his hand caked in blood with blood and his dark hair tangled, panting as if he had ran, Lord Snow wore his usual black doublet and black breeches with a grey direwolf sewn on the breast. Though he was no lord, they called him that as a simple courtesy. When he regained his composure, he finally declared,"We found him,"

Aegon rose so suddenly that his chair flipped backwards and hit the floor, the crash was nearly as loud as thunder. He _jumped_ over the table and ran over to Lord Brandon, grabbing him by the arms so hard she feared he might tear them off.

"Where?" shouted her Royal brother, his face was equal parts fear and joy.

"The bailey, Y'Grace, they're carrying him his quarters," replied Brandon, his breath steadying with every word, "though i wouldn't recommend seeing him now he's in a pretty bad shape, Y'Grace..."

Visenya and Aegon nearly tripped on each other in their haste to get to Orys, bowling over Lord Snow as they ran. His voice was lost in the distance, and she could see Rhaenys peeking around the door from the corner of her eyes.

She watched as they put him down in his bed, his head covered in a dozen of white linen bandages and a light woolen garb protected him from the cold morning air.

She sat at his bedside, as visitors came and went, knights, servants, lords, former kings, the King, her sister, her brother, her cousin, the captain of the guard. So many it seemed, they came and they went, but Visenya stayed, while Orys stayed stubbornly asleep, the Maesters keeping him that way, with dreamwine and milk of the poppy, she watched as they changed his bloody linen sheets and fed him honey and water, she had forbidden wine, Orys had never liked wine, she knew, after a particularly bad incident which involved a boar and his drunkeness.

Visenya, Aegon, Orys and their father had hunted in the forests around Dragonstone one day, Orys was drunk as a seven and ten year old could be and Aegon had dared him to bring down a boar for supper, it was hard to imagine Orys drunk now, it had seemed so long ago, when they were innocent young siblings who knew only of Dragonstone and nothing more. Now _Lord_ Orys, _of House Baratheon_, Lord of Storm's End and _Hand of the King_.

They found a boar that very day.

The boar charged Orys with a fury seldom seen, it was a small boar admittedly, its tusks broke Orys' ribs and left him unconscious for a fortnight. Orys, however, was dead set on vengeance, while the boar slammed him against the tree, Orys drove his spear into its eye and through the brain, he made them promise to eat the boar at the celebration feast. After that, he vowed never to drink again, lest he be killed by a boar, like some sad old fat drunk.

She sat and watched. Orys' face was pale as snow, his silver hair had grown so long it brushed his shoulders, the maesters say it would be safe to wake him in a couple of days. She brushed a stray silver strand of hair from his forehead, planting a kiss on his dry lips.

Looking at him, she wondered how their love came to bloom, he was very handsome, more so than Aegon, even with his beard overgrown and his hair brushing his shoulders, he looked like a magnificent beast.

Every maid in Dragonstone had been tripping over each other to bed the Bastard of Lord Aerion, and gods know who Orys' mother was. The most handsome boy in the isles, she still remembered Melia Qoherys, Lord Aerion Qoherys' daughter, who had fruitlessly tried to seduce Orys, she was a pretty girl, yes, but she was a soft simpering fool, with more style than substance, trained to dance and please and compliment and spend her days sewing and sharing gossip like fishwives. And every time she tried to speak with him, Orys always complained, that while he didn't dislike her, he didn't particularly appreciate her company.

Orys preferred women with backbones in their spines and guts that matched their brains.

Visenya was one such woman.

He might never had said so but she knew it was true, when they had their lessons, he sat as close to her as possible, while Aegon did the same with Rhaenys.

She would have thought it odd if she wasn't half in love with him too.

While others mocked her martial pursuits, her father included, preferring that she spend her days learning how to sew and dance and repeat stupid phrases. They preferred a tame _lady_.

Orys however respected her, he even trained with her.

They played together every day, practicing with swords in the yard while others mocked them behind their backs, they lacked the courage thought to insult them to their faces, however, as much as their detractors whispered, they were still Lord Aerion Targaryen's children.

Eventually, with her flowering, rumors had sprung up that she and Orys were more than just brother and sister, though Visenya worked quickly and the rumors were soon brought to a swift end. Though it didn't keep Rhaenys from throwing a few ill-veiled jabs at her when she came from her half-brother's rooms.

She was so absorbed by her thoughts that she didn't hear Aegon entering the room, he pulled a chair from the wall and sat at the opposite side of Orys' bed, crossing his legs as he settled on the wooden chair.

"You haven't slept for days," said Aegon, after a long silence

"I know," she replied, matter-of-factly.

"You should," he continued, when he saw that she had no intention of speaking back, he silenced himself.

He looked from Orys to her with a curious look in his eyes, "What do you want?" she finally asked.

"May I not visit by beloved brother and sister?" he replied, a smile playing on his lips.

She scoffed, he may love Orys like a brother, but he was far too intimidated of Visenya to ever want her as a man wanted a woman, when they were first wed, he visited her bedchamber once a fortnight, after a year it was only once a month, and now the last time he had bedded her was over a year ago, not that she complained, she had Orys to warm her bed at night.

"What's it between you two?" he asked, she was taken aback by the question. He opened his mouth to say more, but he was cut off by the sound of dogs barking, "Dogs, all the dogs are barking, they've never done that before..." Visenya heard his breath catch in his throat, "Fire, " he whispered.

"The library tower's on fire," he said. Visenya could see the flickering reddish light through the open window now. She sagged with relief. Orys was safe. The library was across the bailey, there was no way the fire would reach them here.

"Thank the gods," she whispered.

Aegon looked at her as if she'd gone mad. "Visenya, stay here. I'll come back as soon as the fire's out." He ran then.

She heard him shout to the guards outside the room, heard them descending together in a wild rush, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

Outside, there were shouts of "Fire!" in the yard, screams, running footsteps, the whinny of frightened horses, and the frantic barking of the castle dogs, she could hear Lord Hightower bellowing orders, "Get water! Move you lazy maggots! Come on you apes! Do you want to live forever?"

Visenya went to the window . Across the ward, long tongues of flame shot from the windows of the library. She watched the smoke rise into the sky and thought sadly of all the books the Hightowers had gathered over the centuries. Then she closed the shutters.

When she turned away from the window, the man was in the room with her.

"You weren't s'posed to be here," he muttered sourly. "No one was s'posed to be here."

He was a small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing, and he stank of horses. He was gaunt, with limp blond hair and pale eyes deep-sunk in a bony face, and there was a dagger in his hand.

Visenya looked at the knife, then at Orys. "No," she said. The word stuck in her throat, the merest whisper.

He must have heard her. "It's a mercy," he said. "He's dead already."

Before he could so much as blink, she threw herself at him, her shoulder struck his ribs and drove the wind out of him, she heard him gasp as she slammed him against the floor.

She choked him down, her hands wrapped about his throat, she gripped him tightly while he fumbled with his hands, reaching out desperately for a strand of her hair to pull, his pale eyes full of fear.

He drove his dagger into her shoulder, she cried at the pain, covering her bleeding wound with her hand, while he flipped her over, and tried desperately to slit her throat.

Visenya was having none of that.

She grabbed the dagger in the middle of his thrust, suffering through the horrid pain in her shoulder. Gripping the hilt of the knife with one hand and twisting his wrist with the other, she bent his arm back around his back, rising to her feet as she did so.

While he writhed in pain, she grabbed his dagger from his limping fingers and shoved it squarely in the back of his neck.

The steel went through skin, flesh and bone.

He collapsed on the floor. His stink overwhelmed her nose, though she was no stranger to the stench of death. _He looks familiar, I could have sworn I saw him before_, she though. Wincing at the pain in her shoulder, she stood and made for the door but she collapsed midway and landed on the bed at Orys' feet, who remained strangely calm, despite his life having been at stake not a few instants before.

She closed her eyes and slept.

* * *

She dreamed of a lion in a stag's skin, while a falcon swooped down to shed it's skin, a mockingbird struck him in flight, sending him down to crash against the forest below.

She dreamed of a wolf, facing the lion, the feline pounced against him only to be defeated , the wolf took a lion cub to the trout's home, while she saw a young stag fighting against his brother, dying in the dead of night, the older stag, the other one's brother, pounced on the lion while a rose snuck up from behind him and pricked him until he bled from a thousand wounds.

While the stag fled to a wall of ice, the lion and the rose mingled together, while a kraken rose from the sea, grabbing the wolf by its legs and dragging him to the sea.

While the wolf struggled against the kraken, the lion struck the wolf down.

The stag pranced half-buried in the snow. The lion cub killed his father, while his brothers fougt amonsgt each other and all around them roses sprung from the grass, only to be crushed underfoot by a lioness.

In their mindless struggle, she saw a dragon fly from beneath the sea, while another dragon, a green one flew from the east, they grappled each other, clawing at each other, biting, when one emerged victorious, the stag thundered from the North, the wolf and the trout and the falcon all joined him, the stag drove through the dragon with its antlers, dooming it to a painful death.

And in the midst of it all, a spider kept on paddling.

* * *

She woke with a start.

She sat up on her bed, her whole body stiff as a rock, her shoulder was covered in bloody linen. Her only garb was her nightrobe.

She saw a black form beside her bed, her vision was murky so she blinked a few times to clear her vision. The figure clarified and she saw...

"...Orys!" she cried

"That'd be me," he said, grinning as he sat beside her on the canopied featherbed and taking her hand in his.

She slapped him.

"I love you too, sweet sister," he said mockingly.

"You scared me!" she said, throwing up her hands in frustration."What happened? You were in bed last time I saw you!"

"And last time I saw you, you were at the feast!" he answered, brushing his reddening cheek with his knuckles, smiling all the while.

"Wait, you don't remember anything?" she said , raising her eyebrows, after he shrugged she continued, "You don't know what happened do you?"

Orys shrugged, frowning,"I was going back to my bed, after that, I woke up with Aegon staring at me and a huge wound in the back of my head. He wants a tourney now to celebrate my recovery,"

Visenya cursed him inwardly, they should have been back in King's Landing weeks ago, they have spent far too much time here in Oldtown. And she did not trust Lord Hightower or Lord Florent after their outburst back at the feast. She suspected they had something to do with this.

Unexpectedly, Orys pressed his lips to hers, she wanted to scream, to cry at him, to tell him someone would see, instead she kissed him back and found herself at peace in his arms.

* * *

Nothing to say, except that I'm surprised nobody got the Dune reference last chapter. I mean Ser Paul Atreides is supposed to be pretty obvious, unless none of you have ever read good literature?

In any case, Good night to y'all and thanks for the reviews and reads!


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